


Sweetly Approachable

by ACatWhoWrites



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACatWhoWrites/pseuds/ACatWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur secretly loves cakes and pastries. He is very, very, very much agreeable, approachable and very happy when presented with cake, which is specially made by Francis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetly Approachable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bioniceye](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bioniceye).



> This is one of many short FrUK fics I wrote for LiveJournal's FrUK lovefest.

The typical expression on Arthur Kirkland's face was that of one who had stepped in dog poop on the pavement while sucking on a lemon. It was cross and one glare short of giving everyone he looked upon a death sentence. When he saw Francis Bonnefoy, who was usually smiling and flirting with anyone his gaze fell upon, the glare sharpened to daggers.

It seemed that there was absolutely nothing the two could agree on. Fashion, food, music, and politics were a few of the many topics they argued over when in the same room. Even when trying to ignore one another, they found themselves bitching about one another when within earshot or engaging in all-out confrontations that frequently escalated to declarations of war.

Nothing could bring a smile to Arthur's face or even a neutral expression since Alfred had grown up. He missed the child terribly, and Francis understood that. Any attempts at consolation ended in threats of foreign objects inserted in unmentionable places.

It was by sheer chance that the weather turned sour when Arthur was at Francis' cafe, a personal side-project. He sulked by the front window, arms crossed. The rain and clouds were heavier there than in London, where it was misty or foggy but not unbearable.

“Here.” Francis set a small plate before Arthur. “Try this.”

“Is it poisoned?”

“Oh, do not be so rude, Arthur,” the Frenchman tutted. “Poison would not be enough to kill you, anyway.” He leaned a hip against the table and pointed at the small cake. “This is a new recipe. The cake itself is chocolate mixed with cherry; the frosting is cherry and mint. The cherry is fresh from the orchard this morning, and the mint leaf is from my own garden.”

It was a pretty cake. The sponge was dark with intermittent shimmering streaks of red. The frosting was barely tinted pink in the light, and the cherry was so dark and shiny Arthur could see a distorted reflection of the dainty leaf. 

Almost grudgingly—for he was many things, but crass and rude he was not—he picked up the fork from the plate and cut into the dessert. He could smell the mint before he tasted it, and the sweet cherry flavour turned his lips up into a small smile.

“It's good.” He took another bite. “It's really good, Francis?”

Dumbfounded, Francis blinked a couple of times. Then he stood and looked at Arthur's face. “Really? Are you sure?”

The Englishman licked a bit of frosting from his upper lip. “Yes. I like it.”

“Well I be damned. . .” Francis laughed. The way to a man's heart, even a thorny black one like Arthur's, really was through their stomach.


End file.
